Now, joy is born of parents poor, <br />And pleasure of our richer kind; <br />Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing <br />As sweet a song as joy confined. <br /> <br />Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day <br />And dances by false glare at night; <br />But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves <br />To spread its wings in Nature's light. <br /> <br />Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks <br />Away on blossoms its sweet hour; <br />But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp, <br />That plums and cherries would devour. <br /> <br />Joy's like a Lark that lives alone, <br />Whose ties are very strong, though few; <br />But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams, <br />Makes much acquaintance, no friends true. <br /> <br />Joy from her heart doth sing at home, <br />With little care if others hear; <br />But pleasure then is cold and dumb, <br />And sings and laughs with strangers near.<br /><br />William Henry Davies<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/joy-and-pleasure/
